


the sea is wine red

by Aziz



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Things, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Untouched, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Wants To Kiss Jaskier | Dandelion A Lot, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Oral Sex, Pining, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Red - Freeform, jaskier in makeup, mild blood kink, this time geralt is the pining one and jaskier is oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22391836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aziz/pseuds/Aziz
Summary: Jaskier drinks some more, his lips red, red,red,and Geralt pulls himself out of his thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.Or, five times Jaskier's lips are red.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 1757
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	the sea is wine red

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [el mar es rojo vino](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22943869) by [Fur_Florian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fur_Florian/pseuds/Fur_Florian)



**I**

It is another royal banquet that Jaskier drags him to. Geralt hates the court and the nobles, feels much more at ease letting himself be swallowed by a selkiemore than trying to navigate the petty, complex game of politics. But Jaskier needs his protection, needs Geralt to watch over him and make sure that no nobleman tries to make the bard lose his pants so he can check if it’s the same ass he saw leaving his wife’s room months ago. Geralt would never refuse to help Jaskier - especially if it is something as small as just a few hours of his pretty much almost infinite lifespan. Not that Geralt would ever admit this out loud, Jaskier’s ego is big enough as it is, there is no need to feed it any further.

Jaskier plays cheerful drinking songs - and songs about Geralt's heroics, which he plays while grinning brightly at the witcher the whole time - dancing around, smiling, joking, laughing. The audience loves him, they sing along to the songs they know, clap to the rhythm, and applaud loudly when the song comes to an end, while Jaskier is bowing, bowing, left, right and center, soaking it all in, basking in the feeling of being in their favour. It is evident that he loves performing, loves capturing the attention of the whole room, loves making people far richer and far more powerful than him dance to his tune - literally.

It is quite endearing to Geralt, the way Jaskier jumps around and sings through a constant, giddy smile that tints his cheeks pink and makes his blue eyes shine. So excited just to _be here_ and play his lute.

Jaskier can actually play and sing rather well (but Geralt will never, ever admit this out loud - he has a reputation to uphold, after all).

Jaskier takes a break, bows while the nobles applaud and whistle. "I'll be back in a second!" he promises and hops away and Geralt loses sight of him between all the wide twirling skirts and the doublets embroidered with a golden thread. He almost starts looking for him, worried the bard might be cornered by a furious husband once again, but then Jaskier resurfaces in the sea of noblemen and noblewomen, a radiant smile on his face and a goblet of wine in one hand.

In the other, a hand of a beautiful woman in an emerald dress. Jaskier leads her into a spin. They step closer and circle each other, one hand on the partner's waist, and then pull away again, seamlessly dancing into the hands of another partner. Jaskier drinks from his cup, two long gulps, as he twirls this countess or duchess or whatever-ess around.

The wine stains his lips red. Dark, rich red of expensive wine that probably tastes sweet on Jaskier's tongue. Dark, rich red of wine that gets Geralt buzzed just from looking at it.

Jaskier laughs as he dances, a powerful, heartfelt thing that throws his head back. The white of his teeth makes the wine on his lips look even more vibrant, more aggressive, more sickly sweet.

More appetizing.

Even though Geralt is more of an ale person, he suddenly feels a strong urge - a strong _desire_ \- to taste the wine on Jaskier's lips, in Jaskier's mouth, to kiss him and lick into his mouth until the taste disappears, until all of the sweetness of the wine is gone and only the sweetness of _pure Jaskier_ remains.

Jaskier drinks some more, his lips red, red, _red_ , and Geralt pulls himself out of his thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. He drowns them in his pitcher of ale and when he looks up again, Jaskier is getting in position to start playing and singing again.

His lips are red and his cheeks rosy and his smile brilliant.

**II**

The tavern is full of loud people, their spirits light thanks to the local ale and Jaskier's cheerful songs about Geralt's bravery and about chasing around skirts and getting under them. Just the right amount of heroics mixed in with the dirty jokes, thinly-veiled innuendos and descriptions of fair maidens so that the result makes Jaskier seem like a great entertainer, rather than a crass bard that only thinks with his dick.

Geralt nurses his pint sitting alone at a table in the darkest corner of the room, brooding in the same way that Jaskier once said he _loved_. Jaskier has already finished singing for tonight and is now mingling with the locals, listening to their stories and sharing his ones in return, and every few moments the company erupts in thunderous laughter. Geralt can't really see Jaskier behind the wall of the villager's bodies, only the dark mop of hair on his head sometimes peeking over their shoulders when Jaskier's speech gets agitated and he starts moving around more.

Geralt sips his beer.

The company quiets down a little. Jaskier says _something_ and then he _giggles_. There's a _“what the fuck?”_ , dripping with venom, the unmistakable sound of someone's fist connecting with someone else's face and the heavy thud of a chair - with a person still in it - hitting the floor.

Geralt shoots up, pushing through the shocked crowd. He needs to make sure that Jaskier is safe and, if he is not already involved in this, that he _does not_ get involved.

No luck. Jaskier is on the floor, eyes wide and teary, one hand over his mouth and the other clutching at his side. The chair he was sitting in lies knocked over right next to him. He heaves and whimpers, pained, shocked sounds.

Geralt smells it without having to see it, the heavy and coppery scent of blood. _Jaskier’s_ blood. When he tears his eyes away from the bard - after a second that feels more like an eternity - he sees that behind the other side of the table, a man is standing up, flexing his hand, the tiniest speckle of blood on his knuckles - but Geralt sees regardless.

Considering how much Geralt knew Jaskier, the man deserved a fist to the face more often than not. Jaskier could be accused of many things and found guilty of most of them. Sometimes, Geralt wonders if Jaskier has a death wish - and tonight is one of those times, because the man that Jaskier must have pissed off is not necessarily huge, definitely not as big as Geralt, but he certainly has a bit of bulk from hard work out in the fields. But Jaskier seems genuinely surprised and maybe, just maybe, Jaskier is not the one in the wrong for once, at least not entirely.

“Ow, fuck,” Jaskier groans.

“What’s going on,” Geralt demands.

“He’s a fucking _bugger_ ,” the man spits and wipes his knuckles into his shirt. “He propositioned me, the pervert. I’m not a fucking pansy.”

Geralt looks to Jaskier, so he can… approve of the story? Who knows.

Jaskier moves his hand from his mouth and he whines when it comes away bloody. His lip is split. The smell of blood gets stronger, but Geralt pays it no mind, because he finds himself transfixed by Jaskier’s terribly red mouth.

The wound on his lip is leaking fresh blood, redder than anything else in the whole wide world, it’s colour unmistakable, unconfusable. It stains Jaskier’s lips, covers them in deep, rich, vivid red, a red just as deep and rich and vivid as Jaskier himself, as _life_ itself. A red that flows in Jaskier’s veins with every beat of his heart, that makes him laugh and sing, that creeps into his cheeks, that rushes to his dick, a red that gives him the opportunity to make a thousand and one bad decisions, tumble into a thousand and one different beds. It’s a red that should stay _inside_ , a red that he very much would like to keep inside Jaskier if only the bard didn’t go around flirting with straight men.

It is red, red, _red_ and Geralt hates the sight of it, but he cannot help himself but be enchanted by it as well. He wants to lick Jaskier’s lips clean of it, find out how Jaskier’s life tastes, wants to bite his lips until more red spills and Geralt can drink it up, can drink _all of Jaskier_ up. Another part of him screams at him to destroy the man that caused this.

He does neither: a drop of the red of misplaced affections starts forming at Jaskier’s bottom lip, and then it drips down and makes a mark on the wooden floor, soaks right into the planks to _stay_ there, a reminder, a memory. It pulls Geralt out of his thoughts. “Anybody else touches him,” he growls, “and I break your fucking arms. Got it?”

The patrons nod and hum. They get it.

Geralt offers Jaskier a hand and he takes it, dirties his palm with his own blood because he is still clutching his side with his other hand. Geralt pulls him up and starts leading him towards their room. He sits Jaskier down on the bed and cleans the wound on his lip and puts a bit of a healing salve on it. Then, finally, he asks: “What was that?”

And Jaskier’s expression sours, disappointment radiating from the way he slumps his shoulders. “He seemed okay,” he defends himself, hissing through his injury, “he seemed _interested._ I have a few things I say to make sure, _we all do_ , and the way he responded _implicated_ \- “ He takes a deep breath to steady his voice. “But when I _actually_ asked, when I touched his thigh - he just. Punched me.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says.

Jaskier, the portrait of misery, laughs. It is a humourless sound and it quickly cuts off because it must be tugging at Jaskier’s split lip rather painfully. “Do not be,” Jaskier pats his shoulder, “I have gotten worse for this. Kicked. A knife to the throat. This is… it could be worse.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt repeats, because Jaskier’s words do not make the situation better, not in the slightest. It is terrible that this kind of shit hangs over Jaskier every time he wants to fuck a guy.

“It’s not like this _everywhere_ ,” Jaskier quickly says. “Some places - some _people_ \- do not give a single flying fuck about where you stick your cock or where in you other people stick theirs. It’s fine, most of the time.”

“It should be fine all of the time,” Geralt murmurs, and in his mind, the sentence continues: _because I don’t want you to get hurt._ But he does not say it out loud. He does not have the strength to do it.

Jaskier smirks, a weird mixture of _bitter_ and _tender_ on his face. “And yet, here we are.”

**III**

Geralt takes a long sip of his ale and tries to remain calm. Last he has seen Jaskier was minutes ago, when the bard had just finished playing a set and promptly disappeared between all the finely-dressed guests. Geralt was expecting to see him getting a drink or something to eat or maybe dancing with some pretty noblewoman, but he's losing that hope with every second that ticks away. He scans the ballroom, circles it a few times, and finally realizes that Jaskier is not here.

That begs the question: where _is_ he? Jaskier has a penchant for getting into trouble the second he is out of Geralt's sight. The trouble he is most likely to get into _right now_ is the angry husband/father/son kind of trouble, and Geralt feels a tingle of… not fear, but apprehension at the very least when he thinks about what might be happening to Jaskier at the moment.

He sniffs the air. It is heavy with various scents: the savory smell of cooked meat, the bitterness of ale and wine; the flowery fragrances the nobles wear, and under that, their natural scents, the musk and the sweat they try to hide. In all of that, it is hard to pick up what is _Jaskier_ and what is _them_ , because there's so much of _them_ and there is only one of _Jaskier_ , small and vulnerable, and because Jaskier was prancing around with them not so long ago, leaving his trail _all over_ the place - just as sweaty and just as perfumed as them, but Jaskier does not _hide_ behind his fragrances, no, he wraps himself up in them like they are the finest silks and uses them to smother the logic and reason of anybody that gets close to him.

Then, finally - Geralt picks up Jaskier's scent, something he cannot really describe but has come to know intimately and recognize immediately, something warm and sweet and never, ever afraid (of Geralt), a bit of chamomile and the liquid he sometimes uses to polish his lute, maybe. Jaskier went down a hallway and Geralt thinks that maybe he just needed to relieve himself. But then he notices that there's a second scent present in the hallway, sweaty and flowery, and Geralt does not wait a second more.

His nose leads him through the castle, out into the gardens. The night is dark and chilly here, far away from the fires of the ball. The only source of light is the moon, half-hidden by the clouds, but it is no problem for Geralt's night vision. The gardens are large, stretches of precisely trimmed grass and precisely trimmed hedges, fountains and almost life-like statues. It is quiet here, except for the serene gurgle of the fountains and the faint song of a nightingale hidden in a tree somewhere.

Geralt breathes in, partly searching for Jaskier and partly just relishing in the clean smell of _outside_ \- it is just as complicated, if not more, as the whirlwind of smells _inside_ , but they are much less cramped, not pushing down at Geralt in the confines of four stone walls. Jaskier's scent tugs him to a sculpture of a man wrestling with a wolf on a high pedestal. He can hear the rustle of clothes - somebody is behind it. Two people, presumably, and one of them is most definitely Jaskier. And then, Jaskier makes a sound, a very tiny one, but Geralt hears and decides to take action without even fully registering it.

Geralt whips around the side of the pedestal, fist raised and ready to strike a furious noble straight in the face.

What he discovers is something else entirely.

Hiding behind the sculpture, there is Jaskier, arms full of a lady in a purple dress. Her fingers are tangled in Jaskier’s dark hair; Jaskier has one hand in the bend of her knee, hitching her leg up, the other on her face, holding her close - a strange mixture of erotic and tender, and Geralt thinks that maybe, maybe Jaskier really does love each and every maiden he beds - as he kisses her deeply.

Jaskier breaks the kiss, only to press his lips to her pale throat and start kissing her _there_ , and the lady’s head falls back and her eyes open. Her gaze falls upon the witcher, or more probably, on the two glowing orbs in the night that are the witcher’s eyes. She screams, the sharp stench of her fear almost overpowering everything else. When Jaskier hears her panic, he quickly pulls away, puts two steps between the two of them and holds his hands up in a pacificating gesture before he realizes it’s just Geralt.

“Ah, Geralt, you startled us,” Jaskier smiles, voice rough, out of breath.

The lady stands, shocked, her back pressed into the cold stone of the pedestal, her eyes flitting between the bard and the witcher.

“Do not fret, my dear,” Jaskier reassures her, “my friend does not run his mouth. He will take this to his grave.”

Geralt can smell Jaskier’s lust, his desire wafting off of him, uninterrupted by Geralt’s appearance, something Geralt has not recognized when he was searching for him - because his head was full of worry - but could now vividly remember smelling the whole time. _Want_ smells hot, sweet and sticky on Jaskier, like honey, and it makes Geralt’s mouth water. Which he does not like. At all. For some godsforsaken reason, it gets on his nerves like nothing ever has before. It almost makes him _nauseous_. He wants the smell to go away.

“I thought you were in danger,” Geralt says.

“Well, as you can see, I am not,” Jaskier beams and puffs out his chest a bit. He is proud of this conquest, and it is justified, because the lady is very beautiful. Jaskier probably expects Geralt to leave now, so he can put his hands and his mouth on her once again and pick up where he left off, but Geralt does not like that idea, not one bit. This could be just a make-out session or a full-blown fuck against the pedestal or anything in between, Geralt does not care. He does not want it to happen, does not want to let Jaskier out of his sight again.

“You should head back,” Geralt grunts and nods towards the woman, “before her husband comes looking for her.”

The lady's face goes from confused to outraged. She clutches at her bosom and stutters, battling between telling off a peasant that insulted her and being afraid of pissing off the Butcher of Blaviken. “I - _you_ -”

Jaskier's face falls, the scent of his desire falters. _Good,_ Geralt thinks. “Geralt's right,” he finally tells the woman, “you go first, we will follow in a moment.”

So as not to rouse suspicion. Geralt is almost surprised by how much common sense Jaskier has - especially in a situation where some of his blood must still be in his dick rather than his head. But then he remembers that Jaskier was doing this the whole time Geralt has known him, and long before that, and he would not survive this long without having at least an ounce of rational thinking, even in intimate situations.

The lady huffs and crosses her arms, but she goes, leaving Jaskier and Geralt behind.

“Such a shame,” Jaskier breaks the silence. “She was as pretty as a raindrop on a rose's petal on a cold summer morning, and just as refreshing.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Be grateful you won't get threatened again.”

“Oh, my friend,” Jaskier chuckles as he starts leading the way back into the castle, “beautiful people are always worth the risk of getting threatened. It almost makes them more exciting, wouldn't you say?”

“No.” Geralt would probably not get threatened - and he would be more than capable to deal with those that _would_ dare to threaten him - but he didn't need people to hate him more than they already do. And there weren't many women that would go after a witcher, most of Geralt's female company has been paid for. But he still didn't see the appeal - chasing around a skirt was more trouble than it was worth.

They step into a well-lit hallway and Geralt turns to Jaskier to tell him he's going to get himself killed one day, or ask him if he knows which lord to watch out for for the rest of the evening, but the words do not make it out of his throat.

When he looks at Jaskier, the only thing he can see is the red, red, _red_ of his lips. They are swollen from the kiss, _kiss-bitten_ and _bite-kissed_ , and the colour is in stark contrast to the paleness of his face. It is not a vibrant red, objectively, but to Geralt (definitely only because of his enhanced sight and No Other Reason) it is more provocative than the red whores paint their mouths with.

This red is the red of want and desire. The red of long nights spent wide awake, of chasing one's pleasure and pleasuring others. The red of kiss so furious there is no doubt the night will end in sweaty sheets and tangled limbs.

A red that makes Geralt want to lean in and capture Jaskier's lips in _another_ kiss, make them redder and redder until they are nothing short of bloody, until Jaskier's mouth gets over-sensitive and his moans and whimpers get desperate and pained against Geralt. Until Jaskier forgets everything else and especially how that lady's mouth felt on his, until all Jaskier can feel, all Jaskier can _think_ , is Geralt. Until Jaskier's lips are so sore he can't even think about kissing anyone for a _week_.

 _Dangerous thoughts_ , Geralt reminds himself.

**IV**

As they are passing through the mountains, a small village hires Geralt to rid them of the beast that keeps killing their sheep. When they tell them that it rips the animals to shreds, Geralt easily concludes it is a gryphon.

That excites Jaskier, because gryphons are impossibly poetic monsters, because of their perceived loyalty to their mates and courage when defending them - truly romantic. Jaskier hopes to find some clever metaphors and point out a few parallels between the monster and the monsterslayer - unstoppable force meets immovable object. A ferocious beast meets a dedicated hunter. Instinct battles skill, one inherited and one learned, but both equally deadly. Yes, that will make a good song. Geralt has not killed a gryphon lately, so it will be a rather refreshing theme after a series of ghouls and alghouls and drowners.

Geralt takes a silver sword and his crossbow with them and they set off to the meadows, to watch over the sheep - and wait for the gryphon to come feast. Geralt makes Jaskier swear on his late mother's grave that he will stay as far away from the herd of sheep as possible, where the gryphon will probably overlook him, meanwhile Geralt stands close to them, straining his ears for the sound of wings flapping in the distance.

They take their places in the morning. Geralt is great at waiting, he is not bothered by it - in part thanks to all his training, in part thanks to his long, long life and slow heartbeat that makes years go by without notice. Jaskier is terrible at it. He gets antsy quicky and he cannot sit still, bouncing his leg, picking at his cuticles, picking at his clothes, picking at grass, letting out an impatient sigh every once in a while for good measure. But he was much, much worse when he first started travelling with Geralt - physically _unable_ to stop chattering, his fingers always itching to pluck at the strings of his lute, if it was nearby - and now, Geralt appreciates the improvement when Jaskier simply takes out his leather-bound notebook and starts writing.

At this stage, he usually writes about the landscape, lays down the scene for the epic battle, paints the situation with precise strokes of his pen. Eases the future listener into the story, briefly introduces himself and Geralt, in the rare occurrence that this is the first song about the legendary White Wolf (and his loyal bard and barker) they have heard. He will revise it again and again, until he chips away everything that is not important, that will not fit in with what the fight will be like (or, what will he make the fight _sound_ like), driving Geralt mad in the process with the constant reprises and replays with only minor, one-word changes. But Geralt will bear it with ice-cold resolve and nerves of steel, like he always does, because Jaskier's songs bring in plenty of coin that Jaskier never hesitates to share with him.

At midday, when the sun is right overhead so that it warms their stiff limbs, Geralt joins Jaskier at his spot at the edge of the pasture and they have lunch. They eat fresh unleavened bread and hard cheese in silence, Geralt not having anything he needs to say and Jaskier respecting that Geralt needs him to stay quiet. Still, the gryphon is nowhere to be seen.

They keep watch during the afternoon, too, and Geralt suspects that after eating, Jaskier dozes off in the warm sun a few times. He is not surprised, Jaskier does it often on the road - gets sleepy after they eat and catches a bit of sleep in soft grass or in Roach's saddle, forehead pressed against Geralt's back and his hands wrapped tightly around his middle. But as the sun gets lower and lower, inches towards the horizon, Jaskier gets more alert, impatient once more. When his legs start falling asleep, he gets up and starts pacing back and forth. The grass crunches beneath his feet.

 _That’s_ when Geralt finally hears the sound of two very big and very powerful wings, carrying something very deadly closer.

“Cover!” he shouts at Jaskier, and readies his crossbow.

A big shadow sweeps through the sky and the sheep start to beck in fear, some of them frightened enough to run and others following them in neat lines. It really is such a shame for sheep to be such naive animals, always following the closest tail instead of scattering _properly_. But Geralt is here to slay the gryphon, not to philosophize over the nature of sheep and how it, ironically, brings them harm, so he aims at the dark silhouette of the beast and pulls the trigger.

The shot must have been good, because the gryphon shrieks and descends, landing on both feet. It turns to face Geralt, a furious look on it’s face, but that’s just how gryphons look all the time. Geralt casts Aard, using the few precious moments it buys him to switch the crossbow for his silver sword and charge forward. When the gryphon comes to, it swipes at Geralt with it’s clawed wing.

Geralt dodges the attack and brings his sword down, injuring it at the forearm of the wing. It roars, way too close to sensitive witcher ears for Geralt’s liking. Geralt feels it pierce his skull, and the next moment the gryphon shoves into him, hard, sending Geralt stumbling backwards.

A sharp beak snaps at him, narrowly missing Geralt’s hand. The gryphon could tear off a chunk of his arm without much effort - their bite is terribly strong, able to snap smaller animal bones in half. Geralt swings his sword at it, but only catches it’s calf because it leaps over him.

Geralt whips around and tries to get it again, but it strikes him in the chest with it’s muscular tail, speeding off after something, most likely a sheep that was stupid enough to stay behind.

There’s a high-pitched and unmistakably _human_ scream. Geralt knows that scream, far too well. _Jaskier_. Oh, fuck. He must have gotten closer to get a better look and caught the gryphon’s attention - as another attacker, or, more likely, as a juicy dinner. Geralt runs after it, raising his sword to plunge it deep into the monster before it can reach Jaskier, but he is way too slow.

It takes the gryphon four long steps to reach the bard, and then it spreads it’s wings wide and takes off, catching Jaskier in it’s sharp, strong talons by his shoulders. Jaskier keeps screaming, a terrified, desperate litany of “Geralt, oh fuck, oh shit, help me, Geralt, save me, I don’t want to die, Melitele, oh fuck, oh fuck, please, _Geralt_ \- “, his arms and legs flailing about in terror.

The gryphon is quickly gaining altitude, although the injury on it’s wing definitely makes itself known, the flight as far from elegant as Jaskier is from ever shutting up. Geralt switches to the crossbow once more, loads it, aims -

It goes straight through the gryphon’s heart, and first it releases it’s grip on Jaskier, before gravity drags it down as well.

Jaskier falls flat on his face. He curls up into himself, shaking and whimpering. Geralt rushes to him, the gryphon corpse cooling, unimportant, just a few steps way. What is important right now is to make sure that Jaskier is okay.

As Geralt kneels next to him, he gasps and coughs and chokes as he chases the breath that was knocked out of him with the impact. The way he moves shows that nothing major has been broken.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, “look at me. Are you alright?”

Jaskier rolls onto his back, still clutching at his chest and stomach. “Yeah, I _think_ \- “ he rasps.

His eyes are red and wet, from the pain of the fall and the loss of breath. His nose is bruised and leaking blood, a lot of it, but he’ll live. It is a bit misshapen - it must have broken when Jaskier hit the ground, then.

“My face hurts,” Jaskier heaves, wincing.

“Your nose is broken,” Geralt tells him. He puts his hand on the back of Jaskier’s head and takes his nose into the other. “This will hurt,” he warns, and sets it back.

Jaskier howls in pain, hands shooting up to his face, pushing at Geralt’s, to get them far, far away, where they cannot set back any more broken bones and cause any more pain. “ _Ooooh_ , that hurts like a motherfucker!”

“Warned you,” Geralt says.

Jaskier’s hands move away from his face and reveal that the blood that is gushing out of his nose covers his mouth in the deadliest shade of red. It colours his face with messy streaks. It’s dark, almost black, and there’s a bit of dirt mixed in. The scent of it attacks Geralt’s nose, sharp and heavy and coppery. Ugly. Terrible. Fearsome. Something twists deep in Geralt’s slow, hard heart, every time he sees Jaskier bleeding.

The blood flows from Jaskier’s nose, red, red, _red_ over his lips, dribbles down his chin, onto his clothes, onto his used-to-be stark white tunic where it joins the grass and dirt stains to paint a picture of this hunt.

Oh, how Geralt wishes to lick him clean, get him rid of the ugly, _ugly_ red. Kiss it off his lips, his chin, his philtrum. Swallow down the metallic tang of blood, taste the terrible taste of Jaskier’s injury to punish himself for not preventing it. Breathe the scent of it deep, _deeper_ and _deeper_ , until it is as deep inside of him as it can be, until it is a part of his very being, ingrained in his bones, so he can remember how horrible it is, remember it good enough that he never lets any harm come to Jaskier ever again.

Jaskier wipes the blood under his nose with the heel of his palm. He blinks. Then, he smiles, his lips still _red_ , and says, “Shit, Geralt - I was _flying_!”

**V**

The room they have rented for the night is small enough that they bump into each other as they are preparing for the ball, especially since Jaskier flutters from one corner of the room to the other, from his pack to the mirror and back again, combing his hair and fussing over the appropriateness of the colour of his doublet. Meanwhile Geralt just dresses himself in the outfit Jaskier has picked for him, another dark jacket without any fancy embellishments and pants to go along with it - Jaskier had quickly learned that if he wants Geralt to wear the clothes he chooses for him, he needs to find something muted and simple, as different from anything he'd pick for himself as it can be. The ball is a wedding feast, some unimportant duke marrying an equally unimportant comtesse - it is all the same to Geralt, and he suspects that to Jaskier as well, as long as they sing his praise and pay him well, because after playing for the Cintran court, he really can't aim any higher.

Jaskier combs his hair _again_ , pats a fresh-smelling floral perfume on his throat and rubs a few drops on the insides of his wrists. Then, he leans close to the mirror and fiddles with _something_ \- the witcher does not really care about the ways Jaskier pampers himself as long as he does not try to pamper him - Geralt can't see what because he is too busy with lacing up his breeches.

Seconds later, they bump into each other once more, and when Jaskier stumbles backwards, the _offensive_ red of his lips catches Geralt's eye and steals his breath away. Jaskier has painted his mouth, applied the colour with a precise brush and a steady hand. His lips are red, red, _red_ \- bright like fresh spilled blood on white snow, rich like sweet expensive wine, erotic like the the evidence of a passionate kiss. Absolutely stunning. Absolutely fucking _dirty_.

Geralt's throat is dry as he rasps out, “No.”

“What, _no_?” Jaskier's eyebrows scrunch up.

“You are _not_ going out like _that_ ,” Geralt says, shaking his head. “You look like a whore. You'll just get into more trouble than is necessary.”

Jaskier's lips form a red offended shape on his face. “Oh, _fuck_ you, Geralt,” he spits. “How I look is none of your fucking business.” His cheeks get redder, though, and the colour is absolutely pathetic in comparison to the pigment on his lips.

“Yes it _is_ ,” Geralt growls, “It is, when you look like they didn't hire you to sing but to spread your legs for anyone that asks - “ Jaskier gasps, “so take - it - _off_.”

“You are a prude, you know that?” Jaskier barks, “a terrible, insufferable, prudent _prude_ that cannot handle a bit of lip paint.”

Geralt sputters. “A _bit_?”

“And what does it concern _you_ if I look like the cheapest, dirtiest whore on the Continent! Why do you _care_?”

“Because I don't want them looking at you like that!” Geralt shouts and surprises himself with it, but damn it, he's frustrated and the red on Jaskier's mouth makes it hard to think before speaking, makes it hard to not be overcome with emotions. Makes it hard to be in control of himself. “I don't want them thinking you're for hire.”

Jaskier blinks. “ _Why_?”

“Because you're _mine_.”

It leaves Geralt's mouth before he can stop himself and he blames the red, the fucking red, the red, red, _red_ of Jaskier's lips.

Jaskier's eyes go almost comically wide, his mouth falls open in silent shock. “Oh,” he says. “ _Oh_.”

“I'm sorry, Jaskier. I didn't mean - “

“Oh, but you _did_ ,” Jaskier says and a wide grin splits his face in two with lines bloody like a gaping wound. He steps closer to Geralt, so their chests are almost touching. “And you are very, very correct. I am, always have been and forever will be _yours_.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Just like you are _mine_.” Then he pulls Geralt down by his jacket - and Geralt lets him, if he didn't, Jaskier wouldn't be able to move him an _inch_ \- and kisses him.

Soon enough, there's tongue, and Geralt finally tastes _red_ \- it tastes like beeswax and mulberry and _something_ and under all that, it tastes like _Jaskier_ , rich and sweet and _warm_. Kissing Jaskier is better than wine and infinitely more intoxicating. Kissing Jaskier makes his blood boil in his veins, threatening to spill out of _somewhere_ and Geralt actually does not give a single fuck, because he's kissing Jaskier. Kissing Jaskier is as divine as a blessing and as filthy as a sin.

They pull apart to gasp for breath. The red on Jaskier’s mouth is smudged a bit. It was definitely wet enough to transfer to Geralt, and the way Jaskier’s breath hitches only confirms this theory. There’s paint on Geralt’s lips, too, and it makes them one and the same. Like a mirror, except that Jaskier is everything that Geralt is not: soft and pretty where Geralt is hard and monstrous, estatic where Geralt is indifferent, dark where Geralt is unnaturally white, cornflower blue where Geralt is yellow. They are entirely different yet they are the same, like… like two sides of one coin, tossed for a song, tossed to a witcher. Landing elegantly in an open palm at this very moment.

“Tell me what you want,” Jaskier pants.

There’s so much of it - there’s so many things Geralt wants. He wants next to _everything_ , so he thinks it will be hard to decide what he wants _right now_ , but suddenly, there are words in his throat, in his mouth, and they pry open his jaw and tumble out of him, decisive: "I want those pretty red lips wrapped around my cock."

Jaskier _keens_. “Yeah, I - of course,” his voice cracks. He gulps. “With pleasure.” He puts his hands on Geralt’s shoulders and pushes him back and down, pushes him to sit on the bed, and then he goes to his knees, situated between Geralt’s spread thighs.

Geralt is hard, big and straining against his breeches, right in front of Jaskier’s face, and he takes it all in. Geralt is worried for a second that Jaskier has just realized that he bit off more than he can possibly chew, but there’s not a trace of fear in his scent, only lust, pure desire, hot, sweet and sticky. And then Jaskier _fucking_ licks his lips, like he’s a starving man about to have the meal of a lifetime - runs his tongue over the red on his bottom lip, moves the paint just the tiniest amount.

Geralt’s heartbeat is like a drum, right in his ears.

Jaskier palms Geralt through his clothes, gives him an experimental squeeze. Geralt grits his teeth when he finally reaches for the lacing, unties the knot and starts pulling at the string impatiently, until he finally frees Geralt’s cock. He gives it another once-over, as it stands flushed and erect in front of him. “Geralt,” he mumbles, his breath ghosting over the leaking tip, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

Geralt is about to utter something snarky about how he should put his money where his mouth is - _put his mouth where his mouth is?_ \- but then Jaskier does _just that_ and it’s impossible to think about anything else than the tongue that licks a long strip up the underside of his dick. “Shit,” he groans.

“I’d say so myself,” Jaskier smirks, and closes his lips around the head. He swirls his tongue around it.

Geralt’s hand moves to Jaskier’s hair and he tangles his fingers in it. It is very, very soft from all the combing. Geralt applies just the smallest amount of pressure to encourage Jaskier to take him further. To take as much of Geralt as he can and then some, because Jaskier would definitely look very pretty like that. Jaskier obliges, takes inch after inch into his hot, wet, willing mouth. When he finally reaches the point where he _can’t_ anymore, he wraps his hands around the rest of it.

He looks absolutely _obscene_ : his lips stretched wide in a red ring around Geralt’s cock, dark lashes fluttering, hair ruffled. _Now_ he definitely looks like a prostitute. Geralt fucking _loves_ it.

Jaskier hollows his cheeks and sucks. Moves up, almost off of Geralt’s dick but not really, and follows the movement with his hands. Goes back down. Geralt bites back a moan - if Jaskier’s mouth on his own felt divine, he is not sure how to describe the feeling of Jaskier’s mouth on his _dick_.

“Gods,” Geralt mutters and playfully tugs at his hair, “you look so good like this, Jaskier - “

Jaskier whines and Geralt feels the sound vibrate around his cock, _in_ his cock, _in his damn bones_.

The praise is obviously doing it for him, because Geralt can see the hard outline of his dick in his trousers. He continues: “Feel so good around me, your mouth is _wonderful_ \- “

After all that, Jaskier sets to suck Geralt’s cock with everything he has, pushing his tongue against the veins, against the slit at the tip, moaning just for the sake of _moaning_ \- just to let Geralt know how much he enjoys what he’s doing, how much he enjoys Geralt’s dick, the taste of it and the weight of it in his mouth, the way it forces his jaw wide open; just to make Geralt shudder with the sounds - leaving traces of his red, red, _red_ lip paint all over Geralt’s manhood.

He cups Geralt’s balls with one hand and keeps working him with the other, a steady rhythm that matches the movement of his mouth, up and down. He uses teeth, only a little, just the right amount to be exciting, thrilling. The pace he sets for himself stutters only once and he quickly gets back into the swing of it like it has never happened in the first place. Up and down.

Geralt comes with a grunt, spilling into Jaskier's mouth, pulling at his hair. Jaskier swallows with a satisfied expression on his face, looking like the cat that got the cream. When he finally pulls off of Geralt’s dick, he actually _licks his lips_ again, the insatiable bastard, like it was the best thing he has ever had in his mouth. Knowing Jaskier, if asked, he’d probably say yes, it was.

His lip paint is fucked up, red colour all around his mouth _and on Geralt’s cock_. The sight of it makes Geralt light-headed. The red of passion, of lust, of the fiery feeling between him and Jaskier. This shade will forever be ingrained in the witcher’s mind as the colour of Jaskier’s lips when he sucked his cock for the first time.

“This was definitely worth the wait,” Jaskier pants. It pulls Geralt back to reality.

 _Jaskier_. He needs to take care of Jaskier, make him feel good, just as good as Jaskier just made him feel.

“Come here,” Geralt pats the mattress next to him. “Want to make you cum.”

Several emotions cross Jaskier’s face - joy, arousal, regret - before finally settling on embarrassed. “There’s no need,” he says, sweetly. “It is a really grand offer, but I am afraid it is completely unnecessary.”

Geralt is about to ask what’s wrong, but Jaskier sits back on his heels and reveals the dark stain on the front of his breeches.

“Did you - “ Geralt asks, “just from - “

“Yeah,” Jaskier agrees, voice wobbly. “It was very enjoyable.”

Geralt pulls him up for a kiss. Jaskier tastes of _Geralt_ and _red_ , bitter and salty and waxy and sweet.

“Next time, I’ll watch you come and savour every second of it,” Geralt rasps, “Next time, I’m fucking you six ways to Sunday.”

Jaskier _whines_.


End file.
